


Long Live the Leg(ing)s

by princessofmind



Category: Homestuck
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-14
Updated: 2013-08-14
Packaged: 2017-12-23 11:10:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,170
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/925692
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/princessofmind/pseuds/princessofmind
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You didn’t realize how much you loved leggings until you started dating Eridan.  And you probably wouldn’t care much for them either way, if he didn’t have the most gorgeous, shapely pair of legs you’ve ever seen on a human being.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Long Live the Leg(ing)s

Both you and Eridan like to keep the townhouse cold, which is fortunate, because you probably would have killed each other within a week of moving in together if you’d been fighting over the thermostat. You prefer it cold by necessity, because it makes the machines that take up most of your office run smoother and has less risk of them overheating. Eridan likes it cold because he has approximately sixteen (you fucking counted when you unpacked them into the cedar chest that sits behind the sectional sofa) different throw blankets, ranging from super soft micro fleece to hand quilted. Plus he’s one of those people who would rather put on more layers than take them off.

It just makes the temperature difference between outside (90 degrees with 80 percent humidity) and the apartment (an amazing 67 degrees) feel like a smack in the face, and even though you know it’s almost thirty degrees cooler inside, that first few moments out of the sun makes you feel even more overheated, like your whole face is flushed with fire.

He’s sitting on the long, jutting end of the sectional sofa, blanket pulled up to his chin and some cooking reality show flickering on the television. He looks over when you come stumbling in after toeing off your shoes in the entryway, arching an eyebrow. “Someone looks a little sunburnt.”

“It’s hot as balls today,” you grumble, grabbing at the collar of your shirt and giving the material a shake. “Have you even left the house?”

“Nope,” he says cheerfully, wrinkling his nose when you come closer because yeah, you’re kind of hot and sweaty and gross, but he kisses you obligingly when you block his view of the television with your head. “I was thinkin’ about going to the mall, but I had a package come today, and you know how the neighbor’s dog is.”

Yeah, it’s a seven month old pitbull who they let run around in your shared front yard unchaperoned, and honestly you don’t mind, but the thing loves to chew on cardboard, and the first time the two of you came home to find Eridan’s latest ebay purchase in a chewed up, damp pile of what used to be the shipping box, you swear the ensuing explosion could be seen from space. Since he works from home anyways, it’s not a huge problem for him to stay home to sign for the packages instead of having them left at the door, but still a bit annoying if there was something he wanted to do but was unsure what time the package would be arriving.

“Get anything fun?” you ask as you flop down on the section of the sofa that’s at a ninety degree angle from where he’s laying down. Really, you ought to go shower or at least change your shirt, but you’ve been on your feet all day and would like to sit down for as long as you can before he kicks you off the new furniture.

His eyes sparkle from behind his glasses, and that’s really the only answer you need. “Wanna see?”

“Duh,” you say succinctly, tipping your head back against the cushion and closing your eyes. The only thing you ever order is computer parts, and the only thing he ever orders is clothes. So if he got a package today and is hiding under the afghan like a mischievous toddler, then he’s probably already wearing whatever it is.

You can hear the blanket being kicked aside, and the much softer, subtle sounds of him adjusting his clothes in front of you, and it makes you want to smile. He’s incredibly fussy about making sure everything is just so before letting you see the newest addition to his walk-in closet (the deciding factor between this townhouse and an apartment a bit closer to the center of town), but it just makes you want to coddle him and muss his hair so you have an excuse to finger comb it back into place. “Kay, open your eyes.”

Of course, the first thing you see when you open your eyes is his face, and he looks relaxed, mostly, with just a hint of anticipation. Because he’ll wear whatever he damn well pleases, regardless of what you think, but your appreciation and approval is certainly a nice, hefty bonus. Further down, you see the familiar thick grey cable knitting of his favorite sweater, one that’s been worn so often for so long that it’s even bigger on him now than it was when you bought it, the neck stretched to show off the elegant line of his neck and graceful sweep of his collarbones, the hem easily covering his hips and “indecent areas” (his words, not yours). The necklace is familiar too, a tarnished bronze pocket watch that hangs on a long chain, with a tiny star map inside instead of a clock (you gave it to him for his birthday last year).

It’s the leggings that are new. They’re a slightly shiny, slick looking material that you’re not familiar with, but the color is a stunning, almost metallic teal with a black design on it that makes you think of scales. Fins. They fit tight, hugging every curve of his calves and knees and thighs before disappearing under the hem of his sweater, and you’re sure his ass is a work of God beneath all that extra fabric.

You didn’t realize how much you loved leggings until you started dating Eridan. And you probably wouldn’t care much for them either way, if he didn’t have the most gorgeous, shapely pair of legs you’ve ever seen on a human being. He’s a swimmer, still goes to the community pool three times a week during the warm season even though he’s not competed since high school, and the muscle tone is perfectly balanced with a bit of suppleness that comes from almost being a housewife (he writes European non-fiction, but in bursts with long stretches of vacuuming and redecorating the house in between) and spending a lot of time sitting around drinking overly sweetened coffee.

So the way the leggings cling to him makes your cheeks hot in a way that has nothing to do with the temperature outside. And while they’ve always been undeniably sexy, it’s not exactly a fetish. He looks just plain cute, always layering them with over large tops complemented with big, chunky necklaces, and has dozens of pairs of soft, well-worn cloth leggings that he wears as lounge wear instead of sweatpants (your favorite is the pair that has comic book sound effects printed all over them that he wears with one of your old Batman sweatshirts).

But these new leggings have a different kind of allure than the simple “I’m horny and my boyfriend’s legs look really hot in those dumb galaxy print leggings” desire you’re used to. These are tighter fitting, look so smooth that you’d think they were waterproof, and the metallic teal color just looks so vivid against his milky skin and the simple gray of his sweater.

“Well?” he says, giving a little spin, purposefully angling himself so you can see just a teasing peek of the curve of his ass embraced by the clinging fabric, but only for a moment before he’s facing you again, eyebrow curved expectantly.

“You look amazing,” you say, and his whole face lights up. “I like that the color is so different than most of the stuff you already have, and the scale pattern is really unique too. Is the material comfortable, though? You usually only wear cloth.”

He smooths his hands down his thighs, expression thoughtful, but all you can focus on is the way his fingers look against the darker material. “I mean, it’s obviously tighter than what I normally buy, but they feel really nice. And the waistband has an admirable amount of give, considerin’ the material, so I don’t feel like I’m about to be severed in half like with some of my other leggings.”

The direction of your gaze clearly doesn’t escape him, because he comes closer, lifting his leg and balancing with one foot on the couch between your knees, the other still firmly planted on the carpet. For a moment, you just admire the design up close; they’re clearly well made, each curve of the scales even and as well lined-up on the seams as you can get, and you can see now that the metallic shine is more from the material than the color itself. Gently, you trace the dips and curves of one of the rows of scales, about halfway up his thigh, moving from the middle towards the inside of his leg.

You were expecting the material to be cool, like he’d just stepped out of the ocean, but it’s been warmed by his body and the time spent under the afghan, but the smooth, slick slide of it under your fingers is nothing less than what you were expecting. Flattening your palms against his thigh, you rub from his knee up to the hem of his sweater and back down, moving slowly so you can really feel the nuances of the texture and the way his muscles twitch under your hands.

When one of your hands drifts towards his inner thigh, rubbing a bit higher, just teasing under the hem of his sweater, you’re expecting to be fussed at. But he just looks down at you, chewing on his lip and holding the pocket watch in one hand. The other hand grasps loosely at his sweater, tugging it up over the leg he has resting close to you, until you can stroke your fingers up the length of his thigh and trace the curve of his hip, thumbing at the sharp bone that he always manages to stab you with before climbing higher to the soft plane of his stomach, just above his pelvis.

“It feels different,” he says, as your hand traces back to his hip, down the length of his thigh, skipping his knee (because he’s ticklish there) and stroking down the strong muscles of his calf. “I can feel it more than when I’m wearing my normal leggings, but still less than if I didn’t have anything on at all. But it’s,” he sighs when you dig your thumb into the muscle just below his knee and rub in a small circle, “nice.”

“Glad it’s doing something for you too,” you say as he pushes your hands away so he can situate himself in your lap, straddling your hips and giving your hands access to the full, beautiful length of his smooth covered legs from where they’re tucked against you. You waste no time in rubbing both your hands up the backside of his thighs until they’ve disappeared under the thick material of his sweater, squeezing at the more generous flesh of his ass. And although you can’t see it, you can _feel_ how the skin tight material cradles his behind, accents the shape of it and hugs every curve.

“You’re so predictable,” he grouses, but you give a little rub and squeeze again and he sighs, against your lips this time.

Because of the heavy sweater, he’s almost uncomfortably warm against your chest, but he’s basically tongue fucking your mouth in hilarious but also wonderful counterpart to the way he’s barely twitching his hips against your in measured restraint, so you can’t find it in you to complain. Besides, there’s something you like about sliding your hands under the extra fabric, feeling the shape of him but not being able to see. So you let him push you back into the couch cushions that still smell a bit like the warehouse, running your hands over every inch of his legs that you can from your current position.

But it’s not long before you’re smoothing up the inside of his thighs, tracing the hollows of his hips before following the slick material up to his waist, feeling the waistband and the skin around it, checking for your own benefit how tight they really are. And it’s like he said; there’s a surprising amount of give there. So your hands drift back down, to the sharp little bones at his pelvis where the inside of his thighs join his hips, just rubbing there and letting the warmth from your hands seep through the material to his skin.

He releases your lips to press sloppy, distracted kisses to your neck, and you can already tell how hard he is from the way he’s rocking in your lap, rubbing his ass against your own erection and his pressing against your stomach. The leggings must really be doing it for him as well, because usually he tries to be more of a tease, drag it out longer.

You can’t wait any longer to feel him through the slick material, though, so you’re glad that he’s not feeling particularly impish this afternoon. So you finally let your hands move from his hips to the bulge of his dick, pressing your palm against the length of him for that gradual transfer of heat, and he whines as he squirms insistently against you. The leggings make it difficult for you to grip him, even just ghost of your fingers wrapped around him, so you just rub him, slowly, enjoying the way the movement is so effortless with the material as smooth as it is.

Eridan tries not to make any noise (you think someone made fun of him for it, before you), panting quietly against your neck, one hand gripping at your shirt and the other tangled in your hair. He whines when you stop moving, the sound more like a controlled, pleading catch of air in his chest than actual sound, but he twitches and whimpers when your hand dips down and back a little further, teasingly, before sliding back up to press against his dick. And the longer you touch him, the contact just firm enough for you to really feel the texture of the leggings without offering him any real relief, the louder he gets, trying to choke the sound off as soon as it manages to tear free of his throat, but eventually gasping audibly for breath and moaning so high and sweet in your ear.

Fuck, do you love the way he sounds. And the way you coax the noises from him, touching him softly and teasingly, and increasing the contact the louder he gets, makes them sound even better. So you reward his cries with firmer contact, actually giving him enough resistance to grind against your palm. And your wrist is starting to ache, just a little, but he’s clutching at you and trembling and you can feel his thighs tensing on either side of your hips so you don’t bother complaining, just rub circles at the base of his dick with your fingertips while he rubs the rest of his length insistently against your palm.

A shudder wracks his whole body, and you’re pulling your hand away before he can tell you to stop. For as closely as he was clutching at you, he goes easily onto his back on the couch, curling those metallic teal clad legs up and spreading them so you can settle between his knees. You pull the leggings and his underwear down just enough for the tip of his erection to peak out, flushed such an enticing shade of red, especially compared to the color of his leggings, and you take just a moment to admire the contrast, the way his sweater is pulled up to his waist and how his chest is rising and falling rapidly with his breathing.

You take the tip into your mouth, swirling with your tongue and teasing at the slit before sucking hard, once, twice, and his hands are in your hair, pulling on the messy strands as he writhes and keens. Practice allows you to follow his movements, keeping him in your mouth without choking so you can swallow his come without spilling a drop on his new clothes.

He lays there, boneless, while you pull the waistband of his underwear and leggings back up, obviously trying to catch his breath and get his bearings. But once he does, his lips are on yours, tongue chasing the bitter aftertaste of his release as he shoves you back into the cushions and settles in your lap again, rubbing his ass against your erection that hadn’t flagged during the time where you were working him over.

You wish he’d let you take your pants off, rub that sinfully smooth material against your bare skin, but you don’t have any tells like he does, and you’ll be in the doghouse for a month if you ruined his new leggings. So while you can’t really feel anything through your jeans, there’s a certain lack of friction that transfers into his motions, and you make up for the rest of it by running your fingers over his calves, resting on his thighs so you can feel the way the muscles shift under his skin and the teal scales as he undulates on top of you.

It’s utterly unfair, how good he is at utterly destroying you just by sitting in your lap, and it’s embarrassing how quickly he has your head lolling back against the back of the couch, hands gripping his hips tightly, holding him close as you grind hard up against him. He’s kissing at your neck with more coordination, now, and when he digs his teeth in and starts sucking a bruise onto the sensitive skin, you promptly come in your pants, choking out a groan that’s part his name, part expletive, part wordless plea. You hold him there, continuing to push up against his ass, looking blearily up at the ceiling as you try to milk every last bit of pleasure out of your orgasm as you can.

He releases your neck with a soft kiss right at the center of what’s going to be a truly spectacular hickey (thank god you wear collared shirts to work), sitting back to smile at you from behind his crooked lenses. Smoothing your hair off your forehead, he leans forward just long enough to give you a peck of a kiss. “I’m gonna mark these up as a roarin’ success.”

Chuckling, you wrap your arms around his waist and pull him to settle against you as completely as he can and still keep eye contact, and he slides so easily in your lap because of those leggings, it’s wonderful. “So uh. How many different colors do they come in?”

It makes him roll his eyes, hard, but a link shows up in your inbox the next day when you’re at the office, that leads to a pair of leggings that look almost mechanic, robotic, in the same slick, shiny fabric.

If the dog carries off this package, you're going to be the one having a nuclear meltdown.

**Author's Note:**

> [Here](http://www.storenvy.com/products/2041492-mermaid-leggings) are Eridan's leggings, if anyone was curious.


End file.
